Waiting in the wings
The moon is a disc, not a
sphere.
Flat as the earth; the
sea
pasted onto the bottom of
the sky;
stars poking through a
threadbare canvas.
I’ve turned away from the
latest backdrop,
heading toward the
interior.
It’s all to be pulled
down anyway
at the performance’s end.
We flow through time
apparently
but, also, time flows
through us,
life delivered daily to
our door.
How could I ever cease to
exist?
If I cease, existence
ceases, the void
once more reigns and even
then
I’ll be waiting in the
wings.
The scenery incessantly
changes but still
I stride the stage,
emoting, aggrandizing,
gesticulating, playing it
to the hilt.
O child of God, follow
the script.
The pageant is endless;
without resolution.
(drawing by Rich Panico)
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